The Road to Ireland

I would like to live in the West, at the edge
of the world, on a small holding,
walk my cow each day to the milk shed
and see which hen I am beholden to

for laying an egg. I would change
wheat into loaves, fill my plate from the field,
stack turf like gold bars for the kitchen range,
and conceal my distillery in creels.

Instead, I have stood at the town’s crossroads
and listened to who is ‘Wanted’ across the border,
who is being adulterous on the old bog roads
and who sprayed ‘Ireland is out of order!’

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Neruda’s Sixteen Finches

It’s difficult to see the glass ceiling because it’s made of glass. Virtually invisible. What we need is for more birds to fly above it and shit all over it, so we can see it properly. ― Caitlin Moran


Insanity.	Great affection.       Hand in hand. 	If your love is for animalia      then
this is the sign	    a sign that you will be judged  (can it be?) 	It’s only Hector Malot
thinking out loud inside your head.	Not so loud!	Neruda hears humming         a fragile
mind is more creative.		I see her travel with sixteen finches 	and a violin or two 	
no less	with a husband  or two     all fit side by side on a rack.      And her stance   strong
not at all unladylike	(captive) she holds	all the wild beasts	gather ‘round her

(lucky charm) like Orpheus 	sweetened by sixteen notes 	oh brother!       just for a lark 
Neruda seeds an idea	to be unshelled    tasted    spitting husks of insanity     to the finches
fine feathers 	not a sign that the bird can sing          no humming please	nor a fiddle
by name alone		befickled of reputation.		(I’ve overheard it said)      only a man 
or a lesbian 	could stroke those curves    make it sing so	(like a beast)	make the maker
redundant.	And behind his hand, hinted in the dark    you know   how she might as well

smoke enormous cigars          drink stout          play golf     (insane I hear) a rodent humming
rat-catching 	fetching finches           teach them all that as well           sixteen years of age.
Watch how the world would play  (make believe)  if not for Neruda   or the great painters. 
Hang the answer in the Halles   see the birdie in the picture    a goldfinch   go look for the 
sign! Bellini is there    copying a feminine figure onto canvas    curves out of the frame
(read an artist’s eye) 	a violin and a woman             bleed together          a medieval beast

mixed from the same oil.     No need for such humming	gentlemen (we’re English).
Remember that	the beak holds no more (significance) than the feather.	Sshh
The picture is speaking           (a beast) of grace          sixteen bunches of erase-me-nots.
Even the devil’s fiddler had an answer	      insanity of sorts          imitations of a donkey
swatch of horse hair 	this is the sign in defence of she          who would not be silenced 
(insulted)           those finches perched high on a single string (to whom do they belong?)

Yes, the witches will dance	on the grass	underneath the walnut tree (despite)
hubbub of howling            insane humming like tinnitus   a tribe of warriors	in your ear!
Give it time and you will see the sign	    (think back) how the fiddler fitted	    right into
the crowd of sixteen revellers (swooners)            black of dress, of hair, of eye, of bird.
The beast cries out   mad wicked folly    liberates finches and ladies (Victoria is not amused).
One by one          he creates a star in the midst          convenes a meeting of the weird sisters.

Sister	do not consent to be sung           only in the manner they wish (understand)      you
alone can cause your wooden lung to sing it real    listen     (Nicolo’s) little bell     beast
of kind reply	   for this is the sign	   hear your goldfinch   twitter at the tip of the steeple.
Strike the violin sixteen times in staccato	study in Italy (or France)            call home
any place where the Master prizes talent    above all humming   stride forward through time
insanity has a  magnificent portal       (with gilded cornices)        twelve foot mirrors.

I will foster a fine bowing arm   (fine beau on my arm)  keep sixteen finches and a humming
bird     sign of a beast.  My violin of tender years     kissed by the old fiddler    as if an ancient
Cremona at auction.  Delicious insanity! Witch be near me. Mirror me on the path of Neruda.
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Seven Years, to the Day

His cursive writing. His presence.
This old green logbook to help find lost bushwalkers
Makes him seem right behind that ghost gum.

Blood that took half a decade to purify.
This man, my father who lay in this hut.
In the top bunk, shivering, small, broken.

The bravado had worn off – his boots
Were giving him hell, he wore mine and
I wore thongs. I didn’t stop for boulders.

We walked out back of the dam for a few days.
After his son lay face up beside a grasstree. I wrote:
Sitting here on the ridge, those tiger snakes are still out of reach.

I hoped he might join the dreamers,
Start walking, maybe write some poems
About kangaroos and red-tailed black cockatoos.

But he blamed himself, after blaming everyone else
and we haven’t spoken for seven years.
I return to the hut, to the day, written in the logbook.

I run my finger over his handwriting,
His abbreviation for Mundaring mirroring mine.
He’s not here, he’s not here.

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Black-figured Greek urn (lekythos), dreaming

Perhaps the urn was made all those years ago
not to hold oil, which it has never held, not
as the ground for the pictures, which
have chipped off, though a hand remains
unattached to a person, not to be carried
from place to place, though its handles are still
intact, but to dream of the museum,
and the museum attendants, daydreaming
in corners, and the mother, holding
the hand of the little girl in the itchy
red wool, passing the older girl a pencil,
to make a sketch of the urn. Instead, the urn
dreams of a photographer, walking briskly
through the museum not looking
at the objects in the cases, or even at
the other people looking, but at the way
the ceiling lights are reflected in the glass.

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Response in Negative

Wrote an extensive treatise
insisting Life is change,

having canvassed the canons,
philosophy, science, so on,

but centring on one life—
I renounce it all.

Should not have changed.
Should have stayed

cleanly bathed in my light-
house gaze, casting, in return,

his own glow. One consummate
arrangement, one time.

Couldn’t. The chrysalis split,
released a whole

other answer despite all.
What I wouldn’t forgo

to reverse, all the way back
to completion’s

precise source, that walk
along the shiny corridor,

pushing the tiny, trans-
lucent crib, asking,

exultantly, Is he mine?
Is he really mine?

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Curator

I am trying to throw things
away. Say, these two cups,
his always green, mine always blue,
in the long dark the two of us,
me stacked inside him, or him
stacked inside me. I fear they’d shatter now
on separation, bright bundle
of cutting shards.

What even is this –
museum of the artefacts
of people who did not love me
enough? See here, this
teal-handled knife, from a caravan set.
How careless she buttered her bread then,
bikini bottoms ruched like a shower cap,
face cast down in the slide frame, still years away
from fool enough
to imagine a child.

But I wake in the night, afraid I
really did throw those cups away.
Lurch to the kitchen.
They are here. The moon is senseless
on the neighbour’s car. I am part
of a chess set and all the other pieces
are misery; I cannot discard them;
they cannot discard me; there is only
gambit and check, gambit and check,
back in the box and start again,
and what if I just threw
everything from a high place then
ran down and set it alight? I’d have
to buy more, and all I seem to have
in my purse is this one pearl button
and this tie-pin, slightly rusted.

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Papier-mâché

This spit-polished veneer has street appeal and is open for inspection. In
these shutter-speed days her family portraits bear the least resemblance to

anything real, paintbox-bright statements, all flourishes and filters – tumbling
and spreading from the news feed’s mouth. And it’s the arrangement that is the

most exhausting – the nipping and tucking, the painstaking placement; all that
sure-footed running with the bulls. What remains of her curls on the editing

room floor, and it’s there that she exhales, stripped down to a wick – hauling
the dead weight of domestic bliss like a cadaver. There, she waits, tracing the

panic room’s button with her finger, as her audience chatters and twitters with
with absent kindness – cutting her a break in digital platitudes; the emptiest of

intimacies. It’s a fragile masking agent, enough to hold the moon at arm’s length
from the sleeping faces of her children; keep the dark sirens, doll-faced and

dead-eyed from making their move – from clambering and twisting their way
out of her, as everything real is stuck, fishbone-cruel in her throat. It’s a complex

deal to strike, and she wonders how it came down to this – all this keeping up
appearances – pasting papier mache strips across this perfect, terrible mess.

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Luck

My mother threw pinches of spilt salt
over her left shoulder, would toss water
that had boiled eggs onto the garden;
crossed knives were swiftly uncrossed on the table.
For good luck: her youngest brother’s signet ring,
its horseshoe worn smooth; the rabbit’s foot
that was her mother’s; a shamrock, four-leaved,
pressed inside her unused missal.

By small margins, sometimes, we find our way
or lose it. If charms that kiss the hem
of a frowning god, can help, let’s have them.
Secure all mirrors, slip on the horseshoe ring
then with a pinch of salt, plant seeds where
the egg-water fell. Tend what grows there.

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Skywatchers

As we climb the dim-lit verges
of Observatory Hill, once Windmill Hill
bicycle lamps whirl past like fireflies,
orbiting in the dark
city kids kick-boxing or exercising
in green space, lights blinking on the Bridge.
We set up telescopes.

The sky is picketed with stars
a gibbous moon, its bent man bundling sticks,
a far-off plane, moving slowly, glowing
like a rogue planet. The lit-up time ball
that drops each afternoon at 1 pm
towers behind us
no longer calibrating ships’ chronometers
but accurate to the second.

The Emu in the Sky’s defined by nebulae
hundreds of light years away
visible against our Milky Way, body and legs
the trailing dust lanes to Scorpius, head resting
in the Coalsack dark nebula, a map to the Universe.
Once seen, like a Rorschach ink-blot
the night sky will never look the same again.

Far below, Fiona Hall’s
Folly for Mrs Macquarie, a filigree of cages
in Sydney Sculpture Walk, Botanic Gardens
images a self-imposed confinement
barbed wire, an axe, some bones
a domed roof of Norfolk Island pine
too brittle to make excellent ships’ masts.

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Bored Orcas

*
This is your habitus speaking. You can look but not touch. The longest time you can look is four to five seconds. Any longer look will be considered ogling. When you shake hands, allow no more than two or three seconds. After that, any touching becomes sexual. The palm leaves a faint residue of oil and salt that can damage even the hardest surface.


*
The end of civilization will be marked by a series of cataclysmic events: the icecaps melting, a rogue wave (really a tsunami), an earthquake, forest fires, a global monetary crisis, tornados (tractor trailers, grand pianos flying through the air).

The past ahead of us, the future far behind. Uranium and plutonium.

Only the Internet will survive. Save? No.


*
A dog ran up to him, started to lick his face…

Everyone should have their own pet, especially one from a shelter. Everyone should have something to stroke, to fondle.


*
Share the road with animals, share the planet with animals… Sure, but they will always remain predatory and rapacious, despite our best attempts to domesticate them. (Google “bored orcas.”) For this reason we now have bigger cages in zoos.

What a disgusting, vile-looking fly!


*
The person you pass on the street may be a fascist, a torturer, a bigot, a child molester, a psychopath, a satanist, an assassin, an alien.

For instance, this elderly woman at the bus stop: “I remember music. I remember clouds. I remember when people actually swam in the ocean.”

You keep on walking, your fists clenched intelligently.


*
The barbarians – yes, always a kind of solution.


*
We don’t want old people, with their wool sweaters and cocoon sunglasses, on our fast-speed boats. Let them stay at home and collect anniversary coins. We have the right to our amusements, our orgasms.

We don’t want fat people to sit next to us on a plane. We don’t want the homeless to sleep our newly repainted park benches. The stench their bodies produce… When I say such things, I’m aware I sound like a bigot.

We blame the fat for being fat, the homeless for being homeless. The homeless know this. They go back to their mansions, remove their rags, take a shower. They deposit their money in the bank. The fat take off their body suits.


*
Stop only for ambulances and caravans.


*
Check your account daily, your pulse hourly. Watch these ads carefully. Do not cross median. Take responsibility for your actions (feelings).

Eventually your computer will know whether it’s you or someone pretending to be you.


*
A kind man with bad breath: “We should put these people in special camps, where they can be taught to appreciate great literature and music, especially classical music. A little Mozart never hurt anybody. Their children should be sent on field trips to Civil War battlefields. They should be taken to galleries and museums and introduced to famous works of art. If you believe in education, you must believe in reeducation.


*
Be careful not to click twice. You will be charged twice.


*
No one likes being rained on, spat on. Payphones, mailboxes, antennas… The map says: You are here.

On the bus, the insane, the homeless, the addicts, and the working poor. On the phone, “This is Charity speaking.”

At the stop, you give all your change to the homeless.


*
Chances of being in a plane crash are infinitesimally small, yet almost every day a plane crashes somewhere in the world. In most aviation accidents, a number of things have to go wrong. Until the final report comes in, we shouldn’t jump to any conclusions. Then the flight attendants started chanting: “Brace! Brace!”


*
Please do not listen to this message if you are not the person we are calling. Please call back if this is a wrong number.


*
Spy masters read spy novels, football players play football video games. Firefighters fire petards at a political rally in Seville (2010). In America, politicians hold a golf summit (2011). Put politicians on minimum wage and see how fast things change, says a graffito on the Internet. In the museum, white dots on a white wall. We thought it was a part of the stunt.

TV reporters talk to each other (“Back to you, Anderson”). In the movie, a flight attendant takes over for the pilots who have suddenly fallen sick. First the candidate engaged in a debate with his foreign-policy aide, then the two men switched sides and argued opposite positions. I’ve always liked The Surprise Symphony. Is this real world or exercise?

Confusing fiction with reality, I once punched a guy who had insulted me in a dream. I once dropped a lighter into a sewer and, as I was trying to recover it, I realized that I had watched exactly the same scene in Hitchcock’s Strangers on a Train. “Like the sensation of being followed…” I’ve never seen so much real world stuff happening during an exercise.

Posted in 66: OBSOLETE | Tagged

En Passant

So to have become passed-
on, like so many pawn shop

pieces, waiting, in another
world, for the gleaners to re-

use, re-cycle, re-fashion.
But none of these parts

in the real world worth the
wound, alone—altogether

more than their warp, and
weft, their untold pattern.

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telescoping the history after LBJ came to Melbourne

747s
and Pelikan ink, and Letraset
kissing without meaning
because
we were smart
and beads

she wore a blue panty girdle
napalm blossoms in the garden
Rufus Youngblood, the head of the presidential security detail
trotted in a suit beside the Lincoln Continental

angry egg yolks ruin shiny car black duco
our youth priest drove his Peugeot 404 at 100 miles an hour
on the back roads behind the concrete dam wall

stone walls were crumbling
my Irish history
we were listening to Sergeant Peppers

though apart from the novelty
we had no idea
bus drivers were figures of authority

I had to stop and weep
driving over the Great Dividing Range
in the red and grey Mini my father bought me

we ate red meat and gravy, but even then
our mother was making us detour to the stone ground miller in Epping
we thought she was a fool
this was 1966
she was doing rough paintings of Australian trees
under the influence of a German artist friend
in the hot, stony outskirts of a Bendigo suburb
that I cannot get rid of
sadness

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To the Anglo-Saxon Insult

You ass-out art against artlessness;
brazen bawd, bull-bladdered bushwhacker;
you churlish clown, clapper-clawed crower —
we’re dizzy-eyed at your dog-breath wit.
Ear-tweaker, you stink-eye the elf-skinner
& flap-jaw gill-faced flax-wenches. Fools’ folly
galls: you gully-wump gorge-gut gearheads.
Haughty, hag-faced, hedge-born harpies
can importune — ill-bred impertinents!
Your jar-head jolts fell jack-a-napes
with knock-out punches. You keel-haul knaves,
rout louts soundly, leverage lewd-ass lurkers,
maul all mammering manikins & mewlers,
nix ninnies & nix the nut-brained.
Oh, your onion-breath, ox-eyed grace & the
power of a-pox-upon-it praise!
The querulous quail; they quiver, queasy.
Dear roguish, raw-boned rut-rapscallion,
you are so saucy! Shag-worthy, smutty!
Even the toad-titted, shit-faced, toast you.
Unmuzzled urchins wax unctuous,
while wanton wags go whey-faced at your
yeasty quim jokes. Chain-yanked yes-men
zip their lips, zit-faced. Zounds! All praise you.

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The future is but the obsolete in reverse

the future is but the obsolete in reverse∼Vladimir Nabokov

hens-teeth
tooth
sooth-seer
futile
soul-fever
suture
terrible-host
horrible visitors
onset
teen
believer
tree
root
soil
obvious
bovril
herbivore
stub-toe
hurt
error
reversible
hubris
revolutionist
refuses
reefer
oo
uu
ee
ii
truth
referee
thief
shoe-ins
throttle
shut-outs
better
before
best
of
three
refresh ↻
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The New Music

One minute you’re a child, amazed
by the god-light leaking through clouds,
the next, dressed like an antiquarian
bookseller, you’re creeping the Facebook page
of the one who got away, recently deceased.
When you think of all the times you said,
“Just a sec,” you want them all back.
You’d stow them with your passport
and your father’s gold watch, recognition
for thirty years of service, hand-tooling
replacement parts for obsolete machines.
One day you’re keeping up with the new music,
the next, all your favourite singers are dead.
You’d pour out your pickle jar of moments
like a boy counting his piggybank spoils,
letting them sieve through your fingers,
the cellar-must of sweat and copper.

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Obsolute

The light lasts into everything

Bare ruined wires where late et cetera: too *smirk* simple
a substitution. Once upon, the grey machines we dreamed
(o orange glow!) were happy & made us so, no. Really. Dis-
mantled with a hammer yr VCR yr diskette (non standard)
yr tomb for the unknown camera. What country, friends,
where analogue means proceed by metaphor, (dis)simulation,
illusion; and digital, by hand. An exchange, sweet birds,
subject to defoliation. Twilight of such (or say, second life)
such fire, red standby – nod, wink – an unfading sunset.

The Scots form obsolute apparently arose by confusion with absolute

False as etymology: so they say. The machine that dreamed
us was well-made, with hope & kindness, even. Sweet bird
of power: when it flies out, we move through skin, a scribble
heatseeking. It should be over now, older than, old as, safe
as. Back it up &. Remains remain &. We. As species, assimilate,
this gift for saying goodbye. End without world, (new or else),
as wild hope, koan left behind in the ticket machine & now settled
beneath my debit card: VOID VOID VOID VOID. Open hands I
– icchantikas – long not to long for. But, but we bear enmeshment.

Another child of silence

Let go. To be/to not: equally problematic. All the violence bird
caged in me in bone in this this strike at. Leaves a. Is similar
to itself in all iterations, similarises, mimetic. Pain’s a settler
beating pathways, cigarette-cherry alleys in the brain after sunset
don’t go there. Down there. That ride I’ve not thumbed long since
w/ all my girl fears that have no expiration. White stucco safe
deposit box in which I store; Nora this and Nora that, birdhands
remote controlled, unchiasmatic. We are incompatible, system
so crude & yet. W/ my quiver of needles, I’ll take that outside-in.

Together with you the chaos makes sense

Why why does she call the nights “wild”? & twice. Militant/simile,
insistent, exclamatory. See leaves rattling the polite white settlement
window, no nuits fauves: incommensurate obliterations. Sent letters,
her grammar granular, sublunary, just a little sugar, that biscuit
that will bite the hand. Void in my mouth, ejecta, named meshuga
showing strange faith in speech acts. Not your Rilkean ersatz elseher,
yr surplus unplugged cunt, “redundant female artefact,” system
down, hanging blankly from the socket. Will this unplayed dead
do? Do hang: bare ruined wires a frayed. & so I put my trust in end.

*

The first, third and fourth stanza headers are misreadings, or mishearings, of lines from
(respectively): Rebecca Solnit, The Faraway Nearby; Jacqueline Rose, Women in Dark Times
and Maja Borg, Future My Love.

Posted in 66: OBSOLETE | Tagged

Like and as, ii

Like snow on a fictional neighbour’s rooftops

you had written or our plans had changed;

Time-indifferent

we’d inhabit those absences;

Modern roads

slashed travel time to near nothing.

Somewhere in Europe

you were Pisa say and

every Name has a Place

nominal as you make it

The diary blinks

intermits

falls from screen

but touch a map

the once-lost province

blooms in

arcs of promised flight

Is this how the stomach

travels…though there

you were bodiless

small red dot in motion

ave maria: gravitas

grounded: fatalism

coded futures tell

a fraught reading

of your non-reply

If Gibraltar

stares at Spain

or that neat key-hole

lighting the dullest tunnel’s

terminus announces France

we speak again

your eyes

the miles

are nothing

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Barrow Ballad

O Harold, O Harold
come trundle your barrow
the world runs away like a wheel
and whatever you see
is whatever you saw
and the barrow is full don’t you feel

It’s breaking it’s broken
I’m taking a token
the world runs wherever it will
and whatever you say
is whatever you’ll sigh
and the sorrow sinks under the sill

Beloved, believe it
what we have received, it
will wind itself down in a wail
and whatever we sought
will be covered in soot
and the bills blow away with the mail

My anger, my hunger
won’t grow any younger
the world wears a stitch in its side
and whatever you sow
is whatever you owe
and the harrow comes dragging behind

O Harold, O Harold
come trundle your barrow
the world runs away like a wheel
and whatever you see
is whatever you saw
and the barrow is full don’t you feel

It deepens it darkens
and nobody harkens
the world tumbles down in the well
where it mars and it mends
oh the world never ends
all the store of the stories to tell

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love story

these preliminaries & wrap-ups are superfluous
if anything sounds like repetition
as a rule of thumb or in the first instance
you need to ‘pick out the eyes’ of the poem
& remember to reduce the apparatus as notes
should be restricted as sources, meaning that,
you need to express a concept
especially the first time you introduce it:
restrict long, complex, convoluted sentences (no poem should contain
more than x ideas) use concrete nouns – don’t say similar
nouns were made by ashbery – & plain natural impersonal unpretentious

imagine talking to an intelligent friend at a kitchen table in a pub

curious friendly straightforward voices;
unlearn the instillation of unfortunate writing
habits & recommend you give the title
serious consideration as a widely available place to start.

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Tree kit (for Zoe)

‘A few almond trees / had a few flowers, like a few snowflakes /
out of the blue looking pink in the light’ —James Schuyler


We sleep through its becoming, the growth
a mimicry of ice & bud –

Do not disturb the delicate
growing crystals
, the leaflet reads

but we do, and how quickly
they drop from paper boughs. In spring

your sister, swinging, said ‘Look! The tree
is snowing.’

They were cherry blossoms, but I thought
of quinces – the fruit

my mother’s horse, soft-mouthed
at thirty, could only nuzzle. ‘Kick

your legs out then back
in again,’ I said. ‘Then you’ll keep swinging.’

She never did, but
white petals showered us both.

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but we still dig

God, we don’t like to complain –
We know that the mine is no lark –
But – there’s the pools from the rain:
But – there’s the cold and the dark.

from Caliban in the Coal Mines by Louis Untermeyer


prospero, you are no hero
: with your books, your are
just a shakespearean weirdo

your tomes
entomb
sun
& moon
leaving only the distance
equations make, filling
up the gloom

with nothing to unlock but
this brutal rock
we mine find
time
& frack it all up

there are no complaints
, only poems that never
open up or give homer
to epic a canon’s restraint

prospero, you are zero
, the infinite absence of
nothing becoming no
thing at all: how you speak
, hollow

for the fire
you gave us
spark

for the song
you gave us
lark

for the fear
we have only
dark

! hark, we are caliban
: in advent plan, chart
star positions above
us, above all of this

! we are only human
& even the daughters
you shipwrecked you
can’t protect from eden

breath us complete from mud beneath
your feet: we will lilith the length of
this abyss, hiss all vinegar & piss like
this hatespeak wish oppressed sheep
calling out from be
-neath a bridges &
updates we like, like
, cher, or retrait

? hast thou not dropped from heaven
, as all quantum leviathans should when
their importance weighs less than myth
, or superstition, a behemoth we cannot
believe in: that is what you look like in
the absence of all your books

all the infections that the sun sucks up
welt across your churches as a mono
-poly that hurt history, a feast of biblical
beasts to pew as you undo the sacred
& holy too us usurpers
care not for the iscariot because forty
pieces of silver won’t deliver messiahs
to a proverbial bonfire: we’re having a
book-burning down here, shakespeare

your miranda rights died when your
daughter did: spell resurrection again

from the coal-mines we canary time
, yellow & laughing: we’ve spoken

babel, enable a cloud
table so beneath pros
-pero’s soles we’ll
dine on all the lines
we’ve been told: in
an attempt to keep
us confused, he’ll
write menus in di
-alects so old we
have to exhume
historians who
croon ancient
tunes, even
though we
-‘ve no wo
-rds 4 w
-hat we
want
2 order

from beneath the ground we have
found fuselage that fossils fuel
, debating which came first: pros
-pero thirst to animate the inanimate
or a propulsion explosion of all life
out to live: from beneath crust
, emerge to dust (we still don’t know
which is worse…

but still we dig
, knowing the
dirt has answer
(to give, witch
…, or perhaps
– secretly – we
hope the core
can be broke
, & back in
-to the cos
-mos we
float

Posted in 66: OBSOLETE | Tagged

Donkey

Down the street, by the line of crippled old men,
each waiting his turn patiently to fill an urn
From the ruptured water pipe, a donkey is dying,
one of its legs shattered and gangrenous,
But still it walks, as if some labor remained for it
among the piles of bricks and smoking timbers,
and one of the men strokes its flank as it passes,
remembering the garden with perfect living rows,
His father’s donkeys turning and turning the wooden wheel
drawing from the shallow aquifer a stinking sulfurous water
That tasted of its own future seeping through communal graves.

Posted in 66: OBSOLETE | Tagged

Persephone, dark abductee

from Beneath: A Nekyiad


Persephone, dark abductee
gather me

for I soften
lose shape

find kin
amongst the wet things

palpitate
like a fountain tip.

So slit the pocket
of my back

reach in
unfold the flutes there

make me
a set of wings

so I might
leave

Posted in 66: OBSOLETE | Tagged

After You Shout

After you shout at the child
we drive past pine branches
stacked on the side of the road
and I want to make a home
of these materials
in which she can live.
You will be faraway
or incommoded as in tales.
Between here and there
is a modest upstairs flat lit low.
It’s not clear that this is my new life,
not clear that I can build the pine shelter
and leave it for her—or that
this is what the shelter becomes in the day.
The music playing is diegetic
but it’s a sound
that does not suit us all.

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